


nobody said it was easy (but it sure as hell shouldn't be this hard)

by putthatbottledowngrantaire



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bodyguard AU, Enjolras/Cosette siblings, Gen, M/M, Political AU, WIP, or close enough?, public figures, semi US politic system?, there are definitely presidents at least
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-12 13:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2111244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/putthatbottledowngrantaire/pseuds/putthatbottledowngrantaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is a man in need of a job and his friend Bahorel just so happens to have the perfect fit.</p><p>Enjolras is the son of a Presidential candidate who is in need of a bodyguard (at least that's what he is told) and has managed to offside most (read: all) the ones he has had to date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello new multi-chaptered fic, I wonder how long it is going to take me to complete you...

This is all Bahorel’s fault. Truly. It is. 

In the future, when Bahorel is informed of this fact he will debate the use of the word ‘fault’, but that’s just semantics.

Without stupid Bahorel, Grantaire would never have got the stupid job; would not even have got his toe in the door. Probably would have had the door slammed in his face actually.

 

****

 

‘Hey Grantaire,’ Bahorel said while both of them were boxing, in that tone of voice – the ‘innocent whine’ that extended all the vowels in a sentence beyond reasonable limits.

‘Oh god, what?’ Grantaire replied, wincing and bracing himself for the impact of whatever Bahorel was going to do/say next, ironically causing him to be blindsided by Bahorel’s gloved hand.

‘Bitch,’ Grantaire deadpanned. 

Bahorel chuckled and waggled his eyebrows. ‘Sooooooo, the thing is that I have this new job, right – Feuilly has assigned me a new client’

‘Okaaaaaaay…?’

‘And I need someone to work with – like, a two man team because this client is high profile and threats need to be assessed and dealt with simultaneously, y’know?’

‘Bahorel, you are a personal bodyguard, not James Bond.’ Bahorel narrowed his eyes and pouted, making Grantaire roll his eyes, ‘Get to the point,’ he said dropping his hands for a moment. Bahorel lowered his as well, both men walking to the side of the ring to take a mouthful of water. Grantaire leaned against the ropes, drink bottle in one hand and gestured for Bahorel to continue.

‘Geez, fine. Apparently no-one in the business will work with him. Or he won’t work with anyone; I’m not sure, one of the two,’ he said finally, dismissing the thought with his glove.

‘Are you really going to ask what I think you’re going to ask?’ Grantaire raised an eyebrow at his sweating friend – Grantaire always was a bit better at cardio work than Bahorel, not that Grantaire wasn’t dripping with the stuff as well. He wiped his head with his forearm, ‘Seriously? Me – a bodyguard?’

‘Well, my boss asked if anyone would tick all the boxes for the other job and I said I could think of someone. What would be so wrong with it?’

‘Me? Looking after someone?’

‘Oh come on, it’s not that bad – stand there and look scary and beat the shit out of anyone who comes close! Easy peasy,’ Bahorel said, huge smile across his face. Bahorel really liked his job. He unvelcro-ed his gloves and threw them on the floor next to his feet. ‘Let’s think about this, yes? Reason One you should take the job: money. Good money. Like, really really really great money. Reason Two: you don’t currently have a job. Let’s be honest that should be Reason One because it’s the only reason you need. Reason Three: your place is a shithole and they will give us a place to live while we are working with the guy. Reason Four,’ he said, and then swiftly smacked Grantaire across the head, making his splutter on a mouthful of water, ‘Stop being such a pussy and work with me.’

Grantaire scowled, ‘And who says they would give me the job?’

‘Look, come with me on Monday and talk to my boss. I’m sure he’ll agree with me that you can do this,’ Bahorel smiled again, ‘then you can meet the client with me on Friday if you’re cleared to work the job.’

‘Cleared? Like, security check?’

‘Yeah, like I said – high profile client’

‘Just high profile, really? No more information available?’

‘Have to wait until you’re check before all that. It’s strictly need to know.’ Bahorel then snatched Grantaire’s drink bottle, drank the last of the water and jumped out of the ring, heading back into the spin room. He turned around one last time before leaving the room, ‘And you said I wasn’t James Bond,’ he scoffed, then winked at Grantaire and was gone.

Arsehole.

 

****

 

Two days later and Grantaire was sitting next to Bahorel in Feuilly’s office. Grantaire and Feuilly had met once before when Bahorel had invited them both out for a drink – which had turned out to be more like four drinks and some shots. Grantaire isn’t quite sure what kind of an impressive he made at that initial meeting; hell, he can’t quite remember much of that initial meeting, but no-one ended in up in hospital or gaol so it couldn’t have been all bad. And Feuilly was smiling – surely a big plus.

The conversation was a fairly simple one: name, age, smoking status; Grantaire could have been applying for health insurance and may not have noticed the difference. He talked about his background a little bit, Bahorel occasionally chimed in with comments and additions to Grantaire’s history and accounts. 

For the most start Feuilly seemed impressed, ‘this is all good as far as I can tell; obviously your background needs to be cleared first. And of course, we all understand that this is very unorthodox and strange, just bringing someone in like this – but this is a bit of a strange client. To be honest, he can be difficult and many don’t get along with him. Well, more that he doesn’t get along with many of them and then we have to find a new guard – long story short is that he has gained a bit of a reputation in our circles and it would be best for everyone if we could get someone in to help rather than keep looking in-house. I hope that doesn’t put you off…’

‘Oh, sounds like a walk in the park!’ Grantaire joked, getting a chuckle out of Feuilly, ‘Bahorel has already explained to me a little of that and has outlined the pros to taking a job – and they certainly outweigh the cons. I don’t think a thing like a personality clash is going to deter me here; I’m kind of used to clashes.’

Feuilly smiled, took a few more details from Grantaire, made a couple of comments about how they should, the three of them, do something in the not too distant future considering the success of their previous meeting, and then sent him out of the room with a firm handshake that hah Grantaire stretching his fingers out once the door had been closed. That man was strong.

Bahorel stayed to talk to Feuilly for about ten minutes longer, before joining Grantaire and taking him for a drink at the nearest bar.  
‘He’s impressed – reckons that you will be a good fit for the spot!’

‘Is this guy really as much of an arse as you guys are saying?’

‘From what I’m hearing, he’s worse,’ Bahorel replied, taking a sip from his bottle of beer, ‘well, not worse but more super-dooper difficult and painful. Like, he can make your life miserable if you offside him.   
Apparently, once one of his guards pushed someone away, hard mind you – pushed might be a nice way of saying it - and he got mad. Started ripping in to the guy and crushing him under philosophies and sheer volume of words. Story goes the guard burst into tears and this client only stopped when his friends stepped in to get him to back off.’

‘He sounds just super then’

‘You have no idea, mate. Just you wait until your cleared. It will make sense then.’

Grantaire tipped his head and raised his bottle to Bahorel, who raised his own to clink them together, ‘Well, cheers then’

‘Cheers’

 

****

 

Friday was the beginning of the end for Grantaire. After being cleared, he was sent with Bahorel straight to a restaurant to meet this mysterious high-profile client. Sitting at a table in a new(ish) suit, trying to look like he was comfortable, Grantaire kept glaring at Bahorel for putting him in this position. Bahorel simply smiled serenely and sipped at his glass of water.

Grantaire was too busy glaring, and focusing on nonchalance that he missed the hush that had come over the other patrons and the hum, like a hive of bees, that began as they leant across tables to whisper and gossip at each other. Grantaire didn’t notice until Bahorel stood up from his seat to shake hands with the suited man who had come to meet with them, and was so shocked by the sudden movement that he mimicked the action without first seeing who he was addressing. 

When he did, his heart jumped into his throat and his stomach simply gave up and fell to the floor, because looking at him with a querying eyebrow was none other than the adoptive son of the front runner in the upcoming Presidential election – half of the Power Siblings (with his gorgeous sister Cosette) and the subject of all Grantaire’s fantasies since first seeing his face over two years ago. 

Fuck. Fuck.

Enjolras Valjean, caught in the most awkward handshake of his life, one that was apparently just going to continue endlessly, cleared his throat; he completely missed the existential crisis that was going on behind Grantaire’s eyes, ‘You must be Grantaire, correct? Enjolras, pleased to meet you,’ he said, his words breaking through Grantaire’s thoughts and making him aware that they were still holding hands.

Oh, Christ Almighty.

‘Um, yes. Hello,’ Grantaire managed, proud of his efforts. Bahorel watched on, amused and hardly being able to hide it.

Enjolras smiled in response, a diplomatic smile, one for the cameras and new acquaintances. He then gestured to the table, ‘shall we? My friend, and minder, is just taking a call outside and will be in here whenever he gets off the phone’

They all sat down and Enjolras called over a waiter to take their orders. Grantaire ordered the first thing that was on the menu in front of him – he could hardly even pronounce it and it was going to be an absolute mystery to him when it arrived.

Well, it was just one of those days, wasn’t it?

Regaining most of his functions, Grantaire could think of three things clearly: one, that Bahorel was a dead man walking; two, that Enjolras was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his entire life; and three, Grantaire was completely and utterly fucked.


	2. Chapter 2

Enjolras Valjean was a man in his twenties.  He was the eldest son of Jean Valjean, influential politician and humanitarian.  He was three years older than his adoptive sister Cosette, though he arrived in the Valjean household twelve months after the petite blonde – making Cosette constantly joke that she was, in fact, the older sibling.  Though their father had a well paying job and was very set in society, the three of them lived modestly in an average house on as close to an average street as they could find would be safe for a politician and his two popular children.

 

Throughout his career, Valjean had tried to keep his children out of the spotlight, refusing to use them as some kind of draw card for votes or popularity; but as the two grew up they wanted to become more involved in their father’s work, in politics and discussion – Enjolras especially. 

 

Wanting to keep his children safe, yet wanting to enable them to grow as people became the chief struggle in Valjean’s life, until a day when an eighteen year old, Enjolras sat him down with Cosette and proceeded to tell him all the reasons why he and Cosette should be able to travel with him and go to public events, even speak at some occasionally.  Valjean eventually had no choice but to concede, crumbling under the combined might of his daughter and son, his condition though being that both had to travel with some form of security detail.

 

Since then, the papers and tabloids had eaten Enjolras and Cosette up, loving the three Valjean’s out together, cooing over how beautiful the two youths looked at galas and events, Cosette safely on Enjolras’ arm.  The darlings of a nation – attractive, intelligent, tenacious and out-spoken – loved and hated in equal measure depending on whom you talked to.

 

Both siblings began under the same security team, usually travelling together anyway and rarely being out of sight of the other.  However, as each became more independent, Enjolras growing into the leader his father could see him being in the future, separate teams were required.

 

The teenaged Cosette, lovely and gentle, instantly got along with almost anyone you put in a room with her, so finding her some people to work with was not a problem.  She quickly developed a close friendship with Musichetta, her female bodyguard – within a couple of weeks, Cosette was meeting her friends and they were getting along as if they had known each other for years.  Cosette’s oldest friend, Eponine, was jealous at first but once the three of them met, Enjolras and Jean Valjean could see they had trouble on their hands.

 

Enjolras’ team was another issue entirely.  Though at times the then twenty-one year old could be a master diplomat and the very image of public niceties, he soon either grew bored with the act, letting it slip occasionally, or found some idiot with idiotic opinions to put back in their place.  Whether it be a politician, a policeman, a visiting diplomat, Enjolras wasn’t one to pull his punches because of the apparent status of said-idiot.  This made finding a team to put up with him difficult, and finding a team that Enjolras put up with even more so. Four years later and it was an issue that they were still, obviously, dealing with.

 

Valjean had thought that he had found a perfect fit with the previous team; two strong, mainly silent, men with years of experience and stellar references.  Surely, he thought, this would work – the guards could deal with it and so could his son.

 

That was, of course, until a young woman ran up to him one day while Enjolras had his back turned, simply wanting to ask for a picture with him (he was one of the most eligible bachelors in the country after all!).  The response of the bodyguard, caught slightly unawares, was to push the woman back.  She fell to the ground, grazed her knee and the screen on her phone shattered.  Enjolras spun around to see the aftermath and was appalled.

 

It took words from Combeferre in _that_ tone of voice, the one he used whenever he didn’t want Enjolras to argue and when he needed to be stopped, to make Enjolras halt his tirade.  Thus, that was the end of that working relationship.

Courfeyrac had shrugged his shoulders, ‘Eh, another one bites the dust…  Your dad should just install Ferre and me in the spots, we can deal with your shit’

 

‘Yeah, but no way you can fight off anyone, Courf,’ Combeferre had reasoned, smirk on his face

 

‘Screw you, neither could you’

 

‘Exactly.’

 

Courfeyrac had huffed and crossed his arms, poking his tongue out at his friend, making Enjolras laugh.  His friends were dorks – how did he end up with them again?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sitting in the restaurant with these two potential bodyguards, Enjolras was wary.  Eyes flicking from one to the other discreetly, he was trying to imagine them working together – they would have to practically live with him for this to work.  Considering that for the sake of his father and for his continued public presence, Enjolras needed this to work and Combeferre was determined to make these two the Ones. Enjolras’ imaginings would probably soon be a reality, and he wasn't quite sure yet how exactly he felt about that.

 

Combeferre finally was off the phone and making his way over to the table, rolling his eyes at Enjolras as he got closer – must have been some event organizer on the phone, chatting away and giving pointless flatteries and ham-fisted arguments as to why Enjolras, and possibly Cosette, should attend their event.  Combeferre, after years of standing at Enjolras' side and helping him organise himself, in the last six months had finally consented to being paid a salary for his work as Enjolras' minder. The idea was first brought up years ago, but never doubt how stubborn Combeferre could be - though, the combined efforts of Enjolras and his family had worn the man down.

 

With Combeferre seated at the table, the discussion started.  Combeferre began the conversation, as is the way when Enjolras is in a situation he does not want to be, by introducing himself and getting to know Grantaire and Bahorel a little, remembering some of the things that he had read on their security clearances and dossiers.  He told them hours, expectations, and requirements and mentioned the rate for which they would be working; Enjolras saw Grantaire’s eyes widen slightly when rough figures were mentioned.  Enjolras then took over the conversation, questioning their motives in life, their views and told them some of his own - given the position these men were looking to fill, he decided to dispense on some of the niceties of a first meeting, trying to get as much information as he could to inform his decision.

 

Grantaire, seemingly relaxing into the conversation and looking less like a deer trapped in the headlights of an oncoming road train, shrugged his shoulders when asked about his beliefs, ‘I don’t care really – do what you want to do, love who you want to love, be who you want to be; just don’t hurt anyone while you’re at it, I guess.  I go through life with a glass of wine in my hand, more or less content’

 

‘Surely, there is more to it than that?’ Enjolras scoffed.

 

The other man simply leaned back in his chair and shrugged again, ‘No, not really.’ Enjolras was getting the distinct feeling that he shrugged a lot (a definitely did not allow himself to consider how broad those shrugging shoulders were, not at all...)

 

Enjolras scowled. Grantaire watched as he seemingly tried to contemplate life without firm values and directions.  Combeferre rubbed his eyes.

 

‘Look,’ Grantaire said, sensing that this meeting was getting off topic, ‘I have read philosophies and read classics and studied art and history; I’m not an idiot.  I have learned that I cannot change the state of the world and will waste away my life and my _glorious_ youth if I try,’ he continued with a wink, ‘And lucky for you, another thing I know is just how hard I need to hit someone on any given occasion.’

Combeferre smiled a little at that, and looked at Enjolras out of the corner of his eye.  Enjolras, on the other hand, looked like he was gearing up an argument, the thoughts aligning in his mind as he stared down the cynical dark-haired man across from him.  Bahorel noticed the look and chuckled, taking a sip from his glass and raising an eyebrow at Combeferre, as if to say ‘yeah, he’s kind of like this’

 

‘I like you guys,’ Combeferre said with a smile, looking between the two of them, Enjolras whipped his head to the side to stare dumbfounded at his best friend, breaking both his eye contact and train of thought.  Grantaire looked pretty shocked too, causing Bahorel to openly laugh at both men and their ridiculous faces.

 

‘Combeferre,’ Bahorel said, ‘Would it be too bold to suggest a celebratory drink then?’

 

‘I like how you think; I think we are all going to get along just _fine_ ,’ Combeferre replied, and ordered one beer for each man at the table.  At least Grantaire was comfortable with that, even if Enjolras still looked far from happy. 

 

He was still gorgeous though.  How rude could you get?  It’s not right that someone could have that scowl on their face and still look like the god Apollo descended from Olympus.

 

And that look he got in his eyes when he started mentioning his ideals?  Just like everyone saw in pictures of him and on television – except it clearly wasn’t an act, it was what he truly thought. 

 

How is Enjolras Valjean even real?

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

They finished their beers and got up again to shake hands, saying their goodbyes and Bahorel and Grantaire confirming their contact details with Combeferre. ‘I’ll be in touch soon. I have to talk to Feuilly about the finer details – it’s not often that we go with the private sector like this but my dear friend here has quite the reputation…’  Combeferre looks at the young Valjean and rolls his eyes dramatically, Enjolras pulling a face in return.  The ridiculous expression lasts only for a second, but it makes something twist in Grantaire’s gut. 

 

Combeferre laughed warmly and bumped Enjolras’ elbow, ‘Okay, off you go then.  I’ll be a second more,’ sounding not in a least like a father sending his child away.

 

‘Not a child, Ferre,’ Enjolras sing-songs, before starting to weave through the tables and chairs of the other patrons, smiling charmingly and apologizing profusely as he went.

 

Combeferre watched for a moment and then turned back to the two potential employees, ‘So gentlemen, like I said, I like you and I’m 95% sure that Enjolras does too – so, yeah, I’ll ring Feuilly, get the final checks and everything finished and I reckon I can have you starting in three weeks if that suits?’

 

Grantaire shrugged, ‘Three weeks works for me,’ turning to Bahorel and seeing him also nodding in agreement.

 

Combeferre flashed his perfectly straight white teeth, ‘Brilliant,’ and stuck his hand out to each man once last time, ‘Til next time’

 

Once more, Grantaire had the distinct feeling that he was in over his head.

 

 

The three weeks between the meeting and ‘commencement of duties’ was counted hours spent with Combeferre and Bahorel in various rooms with various members of Valjean’s staff and security team, and hours spent at the gym with his traitorous friend.

 

(‘In the time between telling me about this job and arriving at the restaurant, you couldn’t have at least mentioned that it was Enjolras Valjean?’ he hissed at Bahorel while they were doing sit-ups one morning.

 

‘I mean, I could have,’ the man replied, ‘but that would have taken away half the fun – of seeing your face when Golden Boy walked up to you.’  The look that Grantaire shot him was not an adequate warning of half the trouble that was going to come his way.)

 

When the weeks were up it was not only the first day on the job, but also Moving Day.  Feeling like a teenager on his first day of college, a feeling that he didn’t think he would be revisiting four years after the end of his art course, standing at the bottom of the front steps of, though modest for a house of a man of Valjean’s stature, one of the biggest and nicest residential properties Grantaire had ever seen outside of Royal families or magazines.

 

He steeled himself and walked up the steps to knock on the door as he was instructed to do by the voice on the gate’s intercom.  He ran a hand through his hair and nervously ruffled it, turning to look at the driveway behind him where his old 4WD was sat, idling.  It looked very out of place, filled with Grantaire’s possessions, admittedly mostly art supplies, and on the verge of unroadworthy.  Grantaire momentarily amused the idea of buying himself a car that wasn’t an accident waiting to happen when the prodigal son himself opened the door.

 

Enjolras, to Grantaire’s horror, was dressed in simply skinny jeans and t-shirt, a world away from the suits that Grantaire endlessly saw him in in newspapers and on the front covers of tabloids.  He was 75% sure that Enjolras heard his sharp intake of breath when Grantaire had noticed the jeans, but mercifully he ignored it, only allowing his eyebrows to draw together a little.  Grantaire tried and failed to stop the thought about what an adorable little frowny face he had enter his mind – _Seriously Grantaire,_ he chastised himself, _adorable frowny face?_

‘Grantaire, welcome,’ Enjolras said finally, erasing the crease between his eyes giving a little smile, ‘Bahorel just called us and said he is running late, something about an accident on the highway – did he call and tell you?’

 

Grantaire clenched his teeth, thinking about the deeper hole Bahorel was digging himself, traffic or no, ‘No, he didn’t…’

 

‘Oh, well, he should be here in about 45 minutes – until then it’s you and me.  Combeferre is here too down near your new rooms out the back. I’ll show you how to drive around there,’ he finished, closing the door behind him and walking down the steps, leaving Grantaire to follow behind.

 

‘Um, one second,’ Grantaire said as he hurried past Enjolras, opening the passenger door skillfully enough to stop anything falling out of the car, shoving everything off the seat and throwing some items further back, ‘Sorry, there you go.’  Grantaire presented the newly clear passenger seat with a small flourish of his hand, desperately hoping that the coffee stains from that time Bossuet spilt coffee everywhere weren’t overly visible.

 

 _Stop trying to impress him,_ Grantaire tried to tell himself, _He’s paying you to protect him from assassins, not the sight of coffee stains._

 

Nevertheless, Grantaire apologized again when Enjolras reached the passenger door and climbed in, Grantaire going around and getting in to the driver’s seat.

 

Enjolras simply told him not to worry about it and then gestured further down the drive, ‘Keep heading down this side of the house; you have to use your new ID card which I have,’ he paused as he lifted his hips off the seat to access his pocket ( _Dammit, Grantaire stop…_ ) and continued, ‘Ta da! Right here on the front gate from now on when you come in and then also to get in your new front door.’

 

The drive around to the back of the house was very short, but without Enjolras there Grantaire very likely could have walked into the wrong building.  ‘We have a few apartments out the back here – guest houses mainly, two of which are going to be occupied by you and Bahorel now.  My sister’s guard lives out here too, Musichetta so I’m sure you’ll meet her this afternoon.’

 

Enjolras gestured to one of the houses, ‘So, that’s you there and next door will be Bahorel,’ he then passed Grantaire’s ID card, their fingers brushing gently in the exchange – Grantaire was sure that the pink flush on Enjolras’ cheeks was always there and hadn’t only just appeared.

 

‘Just swipe it where it says and there will be no drama – get settled in a little and knock at the back door just there,’ he said, pointing to the windowed white door of the main building, ‘and I’ll let you in a give you the mini tour.  I would stay and help but I’ve got to make some calls. Ferre has offered though,’ Enjolras smiled again and looked over Grantaire’s shoulder to where Combeferre was walking towards them. He then stuck out his hand for Grantaire to shake, ‘I’m glad this all worked out,’ he said, before turning on his heel and jogging up to the back door.

 

Grantaire stared after him, his hand warm from Enjolras’ touch.

‘So, Grantaire – let’s get you moved in,’ Combeferre said, suddenly at Grantaire’s shoulder.

 

An hour later when most of R’s stuff had been moved from the car and he was rummaging around under the seats, lying across the rear, trying to find anything that had rolled under them, Bahorel arrived.  The sound of the car crunching up the stones on the driveway prompted Grantaire to get off his stomach and stand and begin slowly clapping.  _He keeps this up and it’s soon to be ex-friend,_ Grantaire thought.  Bahorel flipped him off from the driver’s seat before switching off the ignition and enthusiastically jumping out.

 

‘Don’t worry, Grantaire,’ he boomed, ‘I have arrived!’

 

‘Yes, well done you.’

 

 

Bahorel’s arrival saw a women emerge from the rooms across the driveway – tall and striking, long hair loose around her shoulders and looking perfectly at home, she crossed her arms and lent against the support beams on her small front porch.

 

Combeferre raised a hand to her in greeting, then turned to Bahorel and Grantaire, ‘Meet Musichetta, Cosette’s main guard.’

 

The woman strode over to where they were standing, ‘Chetta, please, they only call me Musichetta when I’m in trouble,’ she winks at Combeferre, ‘or when I’m about to be…’

 

‘Since you’re here now, Chetta, reckon it’s time to go inside and meet the family?’ Combeferre prompts

 

‘Sounds like a plan,’ she replied, looking at Bahorel, ‘we can move you in a little later; plenty of daylight left. But you definitely need to meet the fam. Come on, inside we go,’ she finished, jerking her head towards the back door, smiling and leading them over.

 

She tapped continuously on the glass until Enjolras’ blonde head appeared.  He walked through what Grantaire could now see was the kitchen and stood at the back door, staring at Chetta, cocking an eyebrow.

 

Musichetta sighed loudly, but stopped tapping and stood back, crossing her arms over her chest, ‘Arsehole,’ she muttered.

 

Enjolras laughed quietly on the other side of the door, before opening it, ‘Good morning, Chetta,’ he said, smiling widely.

 

‘Yeah, yeah,’ she grumbled, punching him lightly on the arm as she passed him.

 

‘She’s going to take you down one day,’ Combeferre joked as he followed the group through the door.

 

‘I know,’ Enjolras winked, ‘but today is not that day.’

 

Grantaire decided then and there that a winking Enjolras Valjean was not something he needed in his life.

 

Enjolras lead them into a living room and sat down in an armchair.  Combeferre planted himself in the other armchair and Musichetta flopped down on one of the two couches – they all looked so comfortable and at home. Grantaire somewhat awkwardly sat in a free spot, slipping slightly back into the deceptively deep cushions.

 

‘Cosette should be here in a moment – she is finishing an interview with Marie Claire,’ Enjolras informed the party.

 

Moments later, the patter of footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs.  A long blonde hair appeared around the doorway followed by the porcelain face of Cosette Valjean.

 

‘Speak of the devil,’ Enjolras smiled. Cosette fluttered over to his armchair and sat on the arm, pushing her brother’s arm out of the way, kissing him on the cheek.

 

‘How rude of you,’ she chastised. She then turned her dazzling smile to Grantaire and Bahorel, ‘Hello boys, I’m Cosette – I’m going to say you are Grantaire,’ she said, rightly at Grantaire who nodded and couldn’t help but return her smile, ‘Brilliant.  That makes you Bahorel.  I’ve heard so much about you!’ The young woman practically radiated joy – it seeped out of her and brightened the room.  Sitting there, sinking into the couch Grantaire was almost overwhelmed by being in the same room as these siblings.  Never before had he truly understood their effect – Enjolras, yes – but the combined force of these two must be devastating.

 

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ Bahorel said, not quite as taken aback as Grantaire.

 

‘Papa rang me to say his apologies, he has been held up at the office,’ Cosette said after a moment.

Enjolras twisted slightly and gave her a look, one that Cosette dismissed with a gentle hand, ‘Nothing serious or anything,’ she giggled, ‘just some paperwork and all that. What an exciting life we lead!’

 

Enjolras smiled so warmly at his sister, Grantaire thought his heart might burst.

 

They all chatted for a while and when Grantaire, Musichetta and Cosette took over the conversation, Cosette discovering Grantaire’s degree in Fine Art, Combeferre and Enjolras left the room to go and make some coffee for everyone and find some biscuits.

 

Grantaire watched them go out of the corner of his eye, trying not to be too distracted from Cosette. Enjolras and himself hadn’t spoken directly to each other since Enjolras met him at the door earlier in the day and Grantaire couldn’t help but think that was probably for the best. He decided that he didn’t want to a) offend/off-side his new boss and b) get too close with his new boss. Both situations could be potentially hazardous.

 

This resolve however was quickly tested when the conversation turned, inevitably, towards politics. Grantaire tuned much of the talking out, letting it wash over him as he sat back slightly, sipped his coffee and watched Enjolras talk.  Well, he didn’t just watch Enjolras talk, obviously that would be strange – but he would be lying to himself if he didn’t focus on the way that Enjolras set his shoulders, the way his voice got strong and serious, that way that he flourished his hands or counted things off on his long fingers. 

 

Suddenly though it seemed all eyes were on him, ‘Wait, what?’ Grantaire said dumbly.

 

‘Were you not listening to anything I said?’ Enjolras asked, his posture changing again, turning his shoulders square with Grantaire, that small crease appearing between his eyebrows.

 

_Not the frowny face…_

 

‘Um, I wouldn’t say I wasn’t listening…’ Grantaire supplied slowly, ‘but maybe I just thought I couldn’t really add anything to the conversation…’

 

‘Really?’ Enjolras scoffed, ‘Nothing to add?  Everyone should have something to add!  It’s an important point, surely you can agree there?’ he pressed.

 

Grantaire shuffled a little in his seat, and he watched Cosette place a warning hand on Enjolras’ forearm. He shot his sister a look, who simply raised an eyebrow at him. ( _That must be a Valjean thing,_ Grantaire though, distractedly)

 

‘Well…’ Grantaire started, trying very hard to frame a sentence in his head that wouldn’t cause Enjolras to react like he had when they had first met.  He sighed and resigned to being in a lose-lose situation, ‘Look, I don’t think it really affects me, I mean, it does – but I’m not here to talk politics to you, am I? I’m not really here to talk at all.  So, in a very diplomatic and political way I’m just going to answer” no comment.’

 

Anger flashed across Enjolras’ eyes and Grantaire didn’t really want to admit how much the though of that rage excited him.  The anger washed away however when Cosette obviously dug her nails into her brother’s arm. He yelped quietly and yanked his arm away.

 

Cosette clearly deemed the conversation over, ‘Brother, I like him.  Don’t drive him away this quickly.’

 

Enjolras sighed, but consented in the face of Cosette saccharine face.

 

Grantaire would have to experience the fame wrath another day.  Before he could stop himself however, he stage-whispered to Cosette, ‘Rage, rage Achilles…’

 

The sister gave him a shocked laugh in reply, while the Look returned to the brother’s eyes. Grantaire really needed to stop being such a masochist, he knew, but he was never one to listen to his own advice.

 

 

 

After moving Bahorel in to his guest house, identical to the one that Grantaire now lived in, the two men more or less spent the remainder of the day together, wandering through their new homes and what Bahorel proudly declared was ‘nesting’.  Musichetta has gone out with Cosette somewhere undisclosed after they left the main house; Enjolras and Combeferre had helped move boxes for as long as they could before they were required elsewhere too.

 

Combeferre called them to the house in the late evening when Senator Jean Valjean returned home so that they could make his acquaintance.  He was a man of intimidating physical stature, with a past that was well known in the press – working-class and having spent time in jail in his youth, he worked his way up through the ranks of government, gaining respect wherever he went. Two things were often said about Valjean: that he was dedicated and that he was kind and Grantaire was in awe when he grasped the firm handshake of the middle-aged politician. Valjean left quickly, having been out of the house all day he apologized to Bahorel and Grantaire for his haste, ‘But I want nothing more right now than to sit down and eat an actual meal with my children,’ he told them, smiling warmly and bidding them goodnight. As he walked out he clapped a hand on Combeferre’s shoulder and they left the room together.

 

Grantaire and Bahorel returned to Grantaire’s house and got themselves a beer from the fridge – not having spent quite enough time in there to be cold, but it was good enough.

 

‘Last one of these for a while, you reckon?’ Bahorel asked

 

‘Yeah…’ Grantaire said, hesitantly. He wasn’t quite sure how he would go without for the long periods of time this job would require him to. From the way Bahorel looked at him he could see that his friend understood.

 

‘You’ll be right,’ Bahorel said with a smile, ‘ _We’ll_ be right.’

 

Grantaire gave his friend a small smile back, and relished every last drop of his final alcohol for the foreseeable future, ‘I’m sure we will have days off every now and again; surely Apollo can’t be busy all the time.’

 

‘Either way,’ Bahorel pressed, a more serious look of his face this time, ‘You can and will do this.’

 

‘We shall see,’ he replied, raising the now empty bottle in a mock toast

 

‘R…’

 

‘I know.  If I have trouble you know you will be the first to hear about it,’ he promised

 

‘I better be,’ Bahorel muttered into his bottle, side-eying his friend on the couch and reaching for the television remote.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a terrible updater, don't hate me pls


End file.
